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BRYOND 

THE 
MARi^HEvy 


BEYOND  THE  MARSHES 


IDEAL  MESSAGES 


SERIES  of  booklets  for  friend  to  send 
to  friend,  having  in  mind  the  convey- 
ing of  a  special  word  for  a  specific 
occasion.  The  elegant  manner  of  produc- 
tion and  the  genuine  worth  of  the  messages 
fully  justify  the  title  of  the  series,  for  the 
complete  books  are  assuredly  "ideal," 


Old  English  paper  boards,  embossed,  each, 
net,  25  cents. 

1.  Beyond  the  Marshes.  By  Ralph  Con- 

nor.   A  Word  of  Encouragement. 

2.  The  Bruised  Reed  and  the  Broken 

Heart.    By  Newell  Dwight  Hillis. 
A  Word  on  the  Uses  of  Adversity. 

3.  For  Eyes  that  Weep.      By  Samuel 

G.  Smith.    A  Word  of  Comfort  to 
Those  Bereaved  of  Little  Children. 

4.  He's  Coming  To-morrow.    By  Har- 

riet Beecher  Stowe.     A  Word  on 
the  Coming  of  Christ. 

5.  For  Hearts  that  Hope.     By  James 

G.  K.  McClure,  D.  D.     A  Word 
about  Heaven. 

6.  Unto   Him.      By    Bishop   John    H. 

Vincent.    A  Simple  Word  about 
Coming  to  Jesus  Christ. 


Beyond 
The  Marshes 


BY 


RALPH  CONNOR 

AUTHOR   OF    "BLACK    ROCK"    AND 
"THE   SKY   PILOT" 


S5^ 


?  "rav^ 


FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  NEW   YORK  TORONTO 


r^ 


^ 


Copyrighted,  igoo 
By  Fleming  H.  Revell  Company 


BEYOND  THE  MARSHES 


|HE  missionary  of  the 
Bon  jour  field  found 
me  standing  bag  in 
hand  upon  the  rail- 
way platform  watching  my  train 
steam  away  to  the  east.  He  is 
glad  to  see  me,  I  am  of  his  own 
kind,  and  there  are  so  few  of  his 
kind  about  that  his  welcome  is 
strong  and  warm.  He  is  brown 
and  spare  and  tough -looking. 
For  six  months  he  has  driven 
along  the  pitching  trails  and  cor- 
duroy roads,  drenched  by  rains, 
scorched  by  suns,  and  pursued 
by  the  flies.  As  to  the  flies  there 
is  something  to  be  said.  They 
add  much  to  the  missionary's 


burden,  and  furnish  unequaled 
opportunity  for  the  exercise  of 
the  Christian  graces  of  patience 
and  self-controL  In  early  spring 
they  appear,  and  throughout  the 
whole  summer  they  continue  in 
varying  forms,  but  in  unvarying 
persistence  and  ferocity.  There 
are  marsh  flies,  the  bulldogs, 
**  which  take  the  piece  right  out,'' 
the  gray  wings,  the  blue  devils 
(local  name),  which  doubtless 
take  several  pieces  right  out,  the 
mosquitoes,  unsleeping,  unmer- 
ciful, unspeakable,  the  sand  flies, 
which  go  right  in  and  disappear, 
and  the  black  flies. 

**When  do  they  go  away?'*  I 
asked  a  native. 


**Oh,  them  black  fellows  go 
away  on  snow-shoes." 

8 


These  each  and  all  have  taken 
a  nip  and  a  suck  from  the  mis- 
sionary as  he  pushed  on  by  night 
and  by  day  through  their  savage 
territory,  I  glance  at  him,  and 
sure  enough  they  seem  to  have 
got  all  the  juice  out  of  him,  but 
they  have  left  the  sinew  and  the 
bone.  His  nerve,  too,  is  all  there, 
and  his  heart  is  sound  and 
*^ under  his  ribs,"  which  one  of 
his  admiring  flock  considers  the 
right  spot. 

It  is  Saturday  afternoon,  and 
we  are  to  drive  to  the  farthest 
of  his  three  stations  to  be  ready 
for  the  Communion  Service 
there,  at  half-past  ten  to-morrow 
morning. 

^^Wheredoesitlie?"Iask. 

9 


(d 


Oh,  away  beyond  the  Marsh- 
es/^ was  the  answer.  Every  one 
evidently  knows  where  the  Great 
Marshes  are. 

But  first  we  must  drink  a  de- 
licious cup  of  tea  from  a  brave 
young  Scotchwoman,  who  has 
learned  the  trick  of  making  a 
home  for  her  husband  and  ba- 
bies amid  the  limitations  of 
Canadian  wilds,  little  like  the 
Edinburgh  home  where  she  her- 
self was  a  baby,  and  which  she 
left  not  so  very  long  ago. 

Then  we  must  take  a  look  at 
the  new  manse  of  which  the 
missionary  feels  he  has  the  right 
to  be  modestly  proud,  for  it  is 
mostly  the  work  of  his  own 
hand.  He,  like  his  great  Mas- 
ter, is  a  carpenter,  and  day  and 


night  in  the  pauses  of  his  preach- 
ing and  visiting  and  studying, 
he  has  wrought  at  it,  getting 
such  help  as  he  can,  till  there  it 
stands,  among  the  trees,  the  little 
cottage  manse,  announcing  to 
all  that  the  mission  has  come 
to  stay.  The  front  room,  with 
writing-desk,  book -shelf,  table, 
all  of  the  missionary's  making, 
does  for  reception  and  dining 
room,  study,  and  parlor.  Behind 
it  is  the  kitchen,  with  ingenious 
cupboards;  and  opening  off  from 
this  the  bedroom,  five  by  seven, 
with  bedstead  and  washstand, 
both  home-made,  and  both  nailed 
fast  to  the  wall.  Altogether  a 
snug  little,  tight  little  house,  go- 
ing a  long  way  to  content  one 
with  being  a  bachelor. 

And  now  we  hitch  up  Gold- 


dust,  and  are  off  through  the 
glorious  yellow  light  and  purple 
haze  of  this  September  after- 
noon. Golddust  is  the  mission- 
ary's horse,  and  evidently  the 
missionary's  weakness.  His 
name,  and  as  his  owner  thinks 
his  speed,  his  spirit,  and  other 
characteristics,  he  inherits  from 
his  sire,  Old  Golddust  of  West- 
ern racing  fame.  Old  Golddust, 
if  he  has  transmitted  his  char- 
acteristics, must  have  been  a 
horse  of  singular  modesty,  for 
his  son  continues  resolutely  un- 
willing throughout  this  drive  to 
make  any  display  of  his  nobler 
qualities.  By  an  extraordinary 
piece  of  good  fortune,  due  to  an 
evil  but  unfair  report  of  Gold- 
dust  in  his  young  days,  ^*they 
didn't  know  how  to  handle 
him,"  the  missionary  had  bought 


him  for  twenty -five  dollars! 
One  result  of  the  deal  has  been 
an  unlimited  confidence  on  the 
part  of  the  missionary  in  his 
own  horse-dealing  instinct.  It  is 
quite  true  that  Golddust  has  not 
always  shown  his  present  mild 
and  trustful  disposition.  Indeed, 
the  missionary  goes  on  to  tell 
how,  being  loaned  for  a  day 
to  a  brother  missionary  up  west, 
the  horse  had  returned  in  the 
evening  much  excited,  but  not 
much  the  worse,  with  a  pair 
of  shafts  dangling  at  his  heels. 
The  missionary  brother  did  not 
appear  till  the  day  following, 
and  then  in  a  shocking  bad  tem- 
per. *^He  was  a  Methodist 
brother,  and  didn't  understand 
horses '';  and  the  happy,  far- 
away look  in  the  face  of  his 
present  owner  led  me  to  doubt 
13 


whether  that  day's  exploit  had 
lowered  Golddust  in  his  esti- 
mation* 

Meantime  we  are  drinking 
deep  of  the  delights  of  this  mel- 
low afternoon.  On  either  side 
of  our  trail  lie  yellow  harvest 
fields,  narrow,  like  those  of  east- 
ern Canada,  and  set  in  frames  of 
green  poplar  bluffs  that  rustle 
and  shimmer  under  the  softly 
going  wind.  Then  on  through 
scrub  we  go,  bumping  over  roots 
and  pitching  through  holes,  till 
we  suddenly  push  out  from  the 
scrub,  and  before  us  lie  the 
Marshes.  There  they  sweep  for 
miles  away,  with  their  different 
grasses  waving  and  whispering 
under  the  steady  blowing  breeze, 
first  the  red-top,  then  as  the  soil 
grows  wet  the  blue-joint  and  the 

14 


swamp  grass,  and  out  of  the 
standing  water  the  dark  green 
reeds,  and  farthest  in  the  tall, 
wild  cane  bowing  its  stately,  tas- 
seled  head.  These  red-top  and 
blue-joint  reaches  are  the  hay- 
lands  of  the  settlers  about. 

Skirting  the  edge  of  the 
Marshes,  we  push  again  through 
straggling  scrub,  then  past  more 
marshes,  and  into  woods  where 
we  follow  a  winding  trail  till  it 
leads  us  into  a  little  clearing.  In 
the  center  of  the  clearing  stands 
a  cluster  of  log  buildings — stables 
of  different  kinds,  milk-house,  the 
old  shanty,  and  at  a  little  dis- 
tance the  new  house,  all  look- 
ing snug  and  trim.  Through 
the  bars  we  drive  into  the  yard 
filled  with  cattle,  for  the  milking 
time  is  on. 

15 


A  shy  lad  of  ten,  with  sun- 
burned, freckled  face  and  good 
blue  eyes,  comes  forward  and  is 
greeted  as  ** Donald^'  by  the 
missionary. 

^* Hello,  Donald,  how  are 
you?^^  I  ask,  opening  the  con- 
versation. Donald  looks  at  me 
and  is  inaudible,  meanwhile  un- 
hitching Golddust  with  marvel- 
ous rapidity. 

**  How  many  cattle  have  you, 
Donald  ?  'M  venture  again. 

Donald  evidently  considered 
this  a  reasonable  question,  for 
he  answers  in  delicious  Scotch: 

''Abou-e-t  the-r-r-h-ty.'' 

What  a  pity  we  can  find  no 
spelling  to  reproduce  that  com- 

i6 


bination  of  guttural  and  aspirate 
and  the  inimitable  inflection  of 
voice.  It  is  so  delightful  that  I 
ask  him  again,  and  again  the 
answer  comes  with  even  more 
emphasis  upon  guttural  and  as- 
pirate, and  an  added  curve  to  the 
inflection: 

''Abou-e-t  the-r-r-h-ty/' 

My  heart  goes  out  to  him, 
and  watching  his  neat,  quick 
work  with  Golddust,  I  begin  to 
understand  the  look  of  thrift 
about  the  yard.  It  is  the  mark 
of  the  *^weel  daein'^  Scot. 

We  go  up  to  the  door  of  the 
new  log  house.  Before  the  door 
are  two  broad,  flat  stones  washed 
clean.  *^  Scotch  again,''  I  say 
to  myself.  Had  I  not  seen  them 
17 


in  many  a  Scotch  village  in 
front  of  the  little  stone  cottages, 
thatched  and  decked  with  the 
climbing  rose! 

The  door  is  opened  by  Mrs. 
McPhaiL  That  is  not  her  name, 
of  course.  I  am  not  going  to  out- 
rage the  shy  modesty  of  that  little 
woman  by  putting  her  name  in 
bold  print  for  all  the  world  to 
see.  A  dear  little  woman  she  is, 
bowed  somewhat  with  the  bur- 
den of  her  life,  but  though  her 
sweet  face  is  worn  and  thin, 
it  is  very  bright,  and  now  it  is 
aglow  with  welcome  to  her 
friend  the  missionary.  She  wel- 
comes me,  too,  but  with  a  gentle 
reserve.  She  is  ready  enough  to 
give  of  her  heart's  wealth,  but 
only  to  those  she  has  learned  to 
trust.   And  my  friend  has  gained 

i8 


a  full  reward  for  his  six  months' 
work  in  that  he  has  won  this 
woman's  willing  trust.  When 
the  flush  called  up  by  the  greet- 
ing dies,  I  see  how  pale  she  is, 
and  I  wonder  how  the  winds 
and  frosts  and  fierce  suns  have 
left  so  little  trace  upon  the  face 
of  a  Manitoba  farmer's  wife.  I 
understand  this  later,  but  not 
now. 

When  she  was  a  girl,  her  hair 
was  thick  and  fair,  but  now  it  is 
white  and  thin,  and  is  drawn 
smoothly  back  and  fastened  in 
a  decent  little  knot  behind.  Her 
eyes,  once  bright  and  blue,  are 
blue  still,  but  faded,  for  tears, 
salt  and  hot,  have  washed  out 
the  color.  She  wears  a  flannel 
dress,  simple  and  neat;  and  the 
collar  at  the  neck  and  the  lace- 

19 


edged  kerchief  at  the  breast  and 
the  tidy  dantiness  of  all  about 
her  make  her  a  picture  of  one 
who  had  been  in  her  youth  **a 
weel  brocht-up  lass/' 

Her  house  is  her  mirror.  The 
newly  plastered,  log-built  walls 
are  snow-white,  the  pine  floor 
snow-white,  and  when  the  cloth 
is  spread  for  tea,  it,  too,  is  snow- 
white.  Upon  the  wall  hangs  a 
row  of  graduated  pewter  platter 
covers.  How  pathetically  incon- 
gruous are  they  on  the  walls  of 
this  Canadian  log  house!  But 
they  shine.  The  table  and  the 
chairs  shine.  The  spoons  and 
knives  and  glasses  and  dishes 
shine,  glitter.  The  whole  kitchen 
is  spotless,  from  the  white  win- 
dow blinds  to  the  white  floor, 
and  there  is  a  glitter  on  every 
20 


side,  from  the  pathetic  pewter 
covers  on  the  wall  to  the  old  sil- 
ver teaspoons  upon  the  table. 

Mr.  McPhail  comes  in,  a 
small  man  with  a  quiet,  husky- 
voice  and  a  self-respecting  man- 
ner. His  eye  is  clear  and  dark 
blue,  and  has  a  look  of  intellect 
in  it.  When  he  speaks  he  has  a 
way  of  looking  straight  into  you 
with  a  steady,  thoughtful  gaze. 
A  man  would  find  it  equally  dif- 
ficult to  doubt  or  to  deceive  him. 
The  pioneer  life  has  bowed  his 
body  and  subdued  his  spirit,  but 
the  whole  mass  of  his  trials  and 
the  full  weight  of  his  burdens 
have  not  broken  his  hearths  cour- 
age, nor  soured  its  sweetness, 
nor  dimmed  his  hope  in  God. 

We  are  invited  to  tea  with  an 


air  of  apologetic  cordiality.  The 
food  is  fit  for  princes — home- 
made bread  white  and  flaky,  but- 
ter yellow  and  sweet,  eggs  just 
from  the  nest,  and  cream.  There 
is  cream  enough  for  your  tea,  for 
fruit,  and  to  drink!  Cake  there 
is,  too,  and  other  dainties;  but 
not  for  me.  No  cake  nor  dainty 
can  tempt  me  from  this  bread 
and  butter.  Queen  Victoria  has 
not  better  this  night.  I  much 
doubt  if  she  has  as  good  I  God 
bless  her! 

At  the  head  and  foot  of  the 
table  sit  the  father  and  mother, 
and  Alexander,  Jean,  and  Don- 
ald, with  the  missionary  and 
myself,  make  up  the  company. 
The  children  take  their  tea  in 
silence  but  for  a  whispered  re- 
quest now  and  then,  or  a  reply  to 

22 


some  low-toned  direction  from  the 
mother.  They  listen  interested 
in  their  elders'  talk,  and  hugely 
amused  at  the  jokes.  There  is 
no  pert  interjection  of  smart  say- 
ings, so  awful  in  ill-trained  chil- 
dren of  ill-bred  parents.  They 
have  learned  that  ancient  and 
almost  forgotten  doctrine  that 
children  should  be  seen.  I  tell 
my  best  stories  and  make  my 
pet  jokes  just  to  see  them  laugh. 
They  laugh,  as  they  do  every- 
thing else,  with  a  gentle  re- 
serve; and  occasionally  Jean,  a 
girl  of  fifteen,  shy  like  the  rest, 
pulls  herself  up  with  a  blush  lest 
she  has  been  unduly  moved  to 
laughter.  The  mother  presides 
over  all  with  a  quiet  efficiency, 
taking  keen,  intelligent  interest 
in  the  conversation,  now  and 
then   putting  a  revealing  ques- 

23 


tion,  all  the  while  keeping  a 
watchful  eye  upon  the  visitors' 
plates  lest  they  should  come  near 
being  empty. 

The  talk  goes  back  to  the  old 
times.  But  these  people  talk 
with  difficulty  when  their  theme 
is  themselves.  But  my  interest 
and  questions  draw  their  story 
from  them. 

Fifteen  years  ago  the  father 
and  mother  left  the  cozy  Glas- 
gow home  and  the  busy  life  of 
that  busy  city,  and  came  over 
sea  and  land  with  their  little 
girl  and  baby  boy  to  Winnipeg. 
There  they  lived  for  two  years, 
till  with  the  land -yearning  in 
their  hearts  they  came  out  from 
the  town  to  this  far -back  spot 
away  beyond  the  Marshes.  Here 
24 


they  cut  out  of  the  forest  their 
home,  and  here  they  have  lived 
amid  the  quiet,  cool  woods  ever 
since,  remote  from  the  bustle 
and  heat  of  the  great  world. 


i( 


Why  to  this  place  instead  of 
to  any  other  ?^^  I  ask. 

**  There  was  the  hay  from  the 
Marshes  to  be  sold,  and  the 
wood,  too,^^  answered  the  little 
man.  **But,^'  he  went  on,  **I 
could  not  make  much  out  of  the 
wood,  and  I  was  too  old  to  learn, 
so  I  gave  it  up,  and  went  into 
Winnipeg  to  work  at  my  trade. 
And,  indeed, ''  he  added  cheer- 
fully, *^l  made  very  good  wages 
of  it.'^ 

I  look  at  him  and  think  of  the 
day  when  he  gave  up  the  fight 

25 


with  the  wood,  and  came  in 
beaten  to  tell  his  wife  how  he 
must  go  to  the  city,  I  know  she 
smiled  at  him,  her  heart  going 
down  the  while,  and  cheered 
him,  though  she  was  like  to  de- 
spair at  the  thought  of  the  lonely 
winter.  Ah,  the  pathos  of  itl 
Did  God  help  them  that  day? 
Ay,  and  for  many  a  day  after. 
And  may  He  forgive  all  people 
whose  lives  overflow  with  plenty 
of  everything,  and  who  fret  their 
souls  for  petty  ills. 

Through  the  winter  the  snow 
piled  up  round  the  shanty  where 
lived  the  little  fair-haired  woman 
and  her  little  girl  of  nine  years 
and  two  babies  now,  think- 
ing, talking,  dreaming,  weeping, 
waiting  for  the  spring  and  the 
home-coming  of  the  father.  One 
26 


of  the  horses  died,  and  the  other 
was  sold.  Their  places  were 
taken  by  oxen.  *^And  the  oxen 
are  really  very  good;  I  like  to 
work  with  the  oxen/'  says  the 
little  man,  with  heroic  Scotch 
philosophy  and  invincible  con- 
tent. He  cannot  have  the  best; 
he  will  make  the  best  of  what 
he  can  have.  Again,  may  God 
forgive  us  who  fling  down  tools 
because  they  are  not  the  best, 
and  refuse  to  work,  and  fret 
instead. 

Those  days  are  all  gone,  but 
they  are  not  yet  passed  out  of 
the  life  of  this  family.  They 
have  left  their  stamp  on  heart 
and  character  of  these  steadfast, 
gentle  people,  for  they  are  a  part 
of  all  that  they  have  met. 


27 


After  tea  I  am  told  that  I  have 
not  yet  seen  Katie,  and  the  man- 
ner of  telling  makes  me  feel  that 
there  is  something  in  store  for 
me*  And  so  there  is.  I  am  taken 
across  a  narrow  hall  and  into 
another  room,  spotless  as  the 
kitchen,  the  same  white  walls, 
white  floor,  and  dainty  curtains. 
This  is  Katie's  room,  and  there 
upon  a  bed  lies  Katie  herself.  I 
have  come  into  the  heart  of  the 
home. 

Katie  is  the  eldest  of  the  fam- 
ily. She  is  the  little  girl  of  nine 
that  stayed  through  the  long  win- 
ter with  the  mother,  and  helped 
her  with  the  babies  inside  and 
the  beasts  outside,  and  was  the 
cheer  and  comfort  of  the  house, 
while  the  father  was  away  in 
Winnipeg,  brave  little  girl  that 
28 


she  was.  She  is  now  twenty- 
four,  and  for  the  last  nine  years 
she  has  suffered  from  a  myste- 
rious and  painful  illness,  and 
now  for  eighteen  months  she 
has  Iain  upon  her  bed  and  she 
cannot  rise.  We  all  have  in  us 
the  beast  feeling  that  shrinks 
from  the  weak  and  wounded; 
but  when  I  look  at  Katie  there 
is  no  shrinking  in  me.  Her  face 
has  not  a  sign  of  fretful  weak- 
ness. It  seems  as  if  it  had  caught 
the  glitter  of  the  home,  of  the 
pewter  covers,  and  the  old  silver 
teaspoons.  It  is  bright.  That 
is  its  characteristic.  The  broad 
brow  is  smooth,  and  the  mouth, 
though  showing  the  lines  of  suf- 
fering— what  control  these  lines 
suggest! — is  firm  and  content. 
The  dark  eyes  look  out  from 
under  their  straight  black  brows 
29 


with  a  friendly  searching.  *  *Come 
near/'  they  say;  ^^are  you  to  be 
trusted? ''  and  you  know  you  are 
being  found  out.  But  they  are 
kindly  eyes  and  full  of  peace, 
with  none  of  that  look  in  them 
that  shows  when  the  heart  is 
anxious  or  sore.  The  face,  the 
mouth,  the  eyes,  tell  the  same 
tale  of  a  soul  that  has  left  its 
storms  behind  and  has  made  the 
haven,  though  not  without  sign 
of  the  rough  weather  without. 

There  is  no  sick-room  feeling 
here.  The  coverlet,  the  sheets, 
the  night-dress,  with  frills  at 
the  breast  and  wrists — every- 
thing about  Katie  is  sweet  and 
fresh.  Every  morning  of  her  life 
she  is  sponged  and  dressed  and 
^* freshed  up  a  bit''  by  her  moth- 
er's loving  hands.     It  takes  an 

30 


hour  to  do  it,  and  there  are  many 
household  cares;  but  what  an 
hour  that  is!  What  talk,  what 
gentle,  tearful  Jokes,  what  ten- 
der touches!  The  hour  is  one  of 
sacrament  to  them  both,  for  He 
is  always  there  in  whose  pres- 
ence they  are  reverent  and  glad. 

We  "take  the  books,*'  and 
I  am  asked  to  be  priest.  One 
needs  his  holy  garments  in  a 
sanctuary  like  this.  After  the 
evening  worship  is  over  I  talk 
with  Katie. 

"Don't  you  feel  the  time  long? 
Don't  you  grow  weary  some- 
times?" 

"No!  Oh,  no!"  with  slight 
surprise.    "I  am  content." 


31 


^'But  surely  you  get  lonely — 
blue  now  and  then?'^ 

** Lonely? ''with  the  brightest 
of  smiles.  **  Oh,  no !  They  are 
all  here/' 

Heaven  forgive  me!  I  had 
thought  she  perhaps  might  have 
wanted  some  of  the  world's 
cheerful  distraction. 

'*But  was  it  always  so? 
Didn't  you  fret  at  the  first?"  I 
persisted. 


(4 


No,  not  at  the  first/' 


''That  means  that  bad  times 
came  afterwards?" 


(C 


Yes,"  she  answers  slowly, 
and  a  faint  red  comes  up  in  her 
cheek  as  if  from  shame.    ''After 


32 


the  first  six  months  I  found  it 
pretty  hard/^ 

I  wait,  not  sure  what  thoughts 
I  have  brought  to  her,  and  then 
she  goes  on: 

*'It  was  hard  to  see  my  mother 
tired  with  the  work,  and  Jean 
could  not  get  to  school' *;  and 
she  could  go  no  further. 

*^But  that  all  passed  away?*' 
I  asked,  after  a  pause. 

*Oh,  yes!*'  and  her  smile 
says  much.  It  was  the  memory 
of  her  triumph  that  brought  her 
smile,  and  it  illumined  her  face. 

My  words  came  slowly.  I 
could  not  comfort  where  com- 
fort was  not  needed.     I  could 

33 


not  pity,  facing  a  smile  like  that; 
and  it  seemed  hard  to  rejoice 
over  one  whose  days  were  often 
full  of  pain.  But  it  came  to  me 
to  say: 

*^  He  has  done  much  for  you ; 
and  you  are  doing  much  for 
Him/^ 

^'Yes:  He  has  done  much  for 
me/^  But  she  would  go  no  fur- 
ther. Her  service  seemed  small 
to  her,  but  to  me  it  seemed  great 
and  high.  We,  in  our  full  blood 
and  unbroken  life,  have  our 
work,  our  common  work,  but 
this  high  work  is  not  for  us — 
we  are  not  good  enough.  This 
He  keeps  for  those  His  love 
makes  pure  by  pain.  This 
would  almost  make  one  content 
to  suffer. 

34 


Next  morning  we  all  went  to 
the  little  log  school,  where  the 
Communion  service  was  to  be 
held  —  all  but  the  father  and 
Katie. 


**You  have  done  me  much 
good,''  I  could  not  but  say  be- 
ot 


fore  I  left;  ^*and  you  are  a  bless- 
ing in  your  home/ 


The  color  rose  in  her  pale 
cheek,  but  she  only  said: 

^^I  am  glad  you  were  sent 
to  us/' 

Then  I  came  away,  humbly 
and  softly,  feeling  as  if  I  had 
been  in  a  holy  place,  where  I 
was  not  worthy  to  stand.  And 
a  holy  place  it  will  ever  be  to 
me — the  white  room,  the  spot- 

35 


less  white  room,  lit  by  the  glory 
of  that  bright,  sweet,  patient 
face.  At  the  Table  that  day 
the  mother's  face  had  the  same 
glory — the  glory  of  those  that 
overcome,  the  reflection  of  the 
glory  to  follow.  Happy,  blessed 
home !  The  snows  may  pile  up 
into  the  bluff  and  the  blizzards 
sweep  over  the  whistling  reeds 
of  the  Marshes,  but  nothing  can 
chill  the  love  or  dim  the  hopes 
that  warm  and  brighten  the 
hearts  in  the  little  log  house 
Beyond  the  Marshes,  for  they 
have  their  source  from  that  high 
place  where  love  never  faileth 
and  hopes  never  disappoint. 


36 


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